


Smooth As Silk

by Rod



Category: CI5: The New Professionals
Genre: Angst, Birthday, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-30
Updated: 2013-07-30
Packaged: 2017-12-21 22:31:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/905710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rod/pseuds/Rod
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris loves his birthday.  Really, he does.  It holds such happy memories.  And you believe that, I've got a bridge that you just <em>have</em> to see.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smooth As Silk

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** They ain't mine, much though I might wish. They're David Wickes' and Brian Clements'. The extras are mine, as is anything bent, folded, mutilated or spindled.
> 
> This was my first fanfic proper (outside some shared world collaborations), my first slash fic, and my first sex scene (much to my surprise at the time). It was written for the birthday challenge on the CI5 site. Apologies for drowning you all in angst here. I should also disclaim that I wasn't the first to use a coincidence of dates to twist the knife in this particular way.

I'm a little pissed at my colleagues, my alleged friends. I'm almost positive that they've spotted it's my birthday. Hell, I know Backup has been through my file at least once recently, she's got that calculating look on her face again every time she glances in my direction. That definitely means something, but whether it's weighing up the right moment to spring the "surprise" party or advance warning of our next mission I don't know. Spencer is as affably unreadable as ever, Richards looks insufferably pleased with himself, and Sam looks... Sam looks nervous.

Of all of them, it looks like only my partner has caught the hint. I don't want a party. Yes, I know, normally I'm the office party animal, throwing myself into the spirit of the occasional with no restraint. It's just that my birthday is different.

The Keel family has always had trouble getting together for some reason. We celebrated Christmas whenever Dad was on land, which could be any time between November and March, or in one particularly bad year early June. New Year was great for anyone who was actually there, which was never more than half of us. We never knew when anyone would be around, and we never really planned on getting together, except for one date. Apparently when I was about five, Mum noticed that she had nearly the whole family together to celebrate my birthday. That was that; from then on, everyone made a special effort to be around for my birthday bash. We never had everyone, but we did better than any other time of the year.

I'm used to having my whole family around on my birthday. It's gotten easier to manage in the last few years. Last year I just pulled out my wedding photos and leafed through them, remembering every face, every story. Then I cried myself to sleep with a bottle of scotch.

I toy with the idea of slipping off early and trying to hide, but knowing this lot they'll just come round to my apartment and track me down. Anyway, thoughts of escape are summarily dismissed as Malone leaves his office, shooing Winter and Johnstone ahead of him. The old goat is almost smiling; something's up. "Well gentlemen," he says as if in confirmation, "the operation is go." Operation? Did I sleep through another briefing, I wonder as the Ops staff take their stations. "Oh, and happy birthday Mr Keel."

Git! I should have known that Malone would have too thick a skin to take the hint, and I glower in his direction. His smile doesn't slip in the slightest, and it becomes evident that the drift towards stations was just because that's where everyone hid their party streamers. Double git! _Malone_ organised this? Sam and Backup are standing at my shoulders, cutting off my escape as Spencer brandishes a cake in my direction. Please God don't let him have baked it himself, I think as I paste my best dealing-with-idiots smile on my face. "Guys..." I begin, and am promptly drowned out by a raucous rendition of Happy Birthday.

I grin and nod, and suppress the urge to run. I should feel grateful that they remembered at all and wanted to celebrate with me, but I can only feel numbness at the people who aren't here. Mum, Dad, Theresa.... Someone shoves a beer into my hand, and everyone looks expectant. It must be speech time. "Guys," I try again, and the choke in my voice is real. It's not what my colleagues think it is, but it's definitely for real. "Guys, I was looking forward to a quiet night in." There are the expected cat-calls. "But I guess that's gone by the board."

"Don't bet on it," Richards calls back, "you really reckon Malone's given us all the night off?" Malone looks at him frostily, which cheers me up no end. Truly his generosity knows many bounds.

"Anyway... thanks. So where's the music and the dancing girls?" The typing pool is glad to oblige to the strains of Britney Spears. I am prevailed on to cut the cake, with the commando knife which is, to Spencer's considerable discomfort, the nearest thing to hand. It's an icing-covered sponge cake which mercifully came from a shop rather than Spencer's decidedly experimental kitchen. I declare it to be acceptable, which Sam correctly translates as "enough sugar, but where's the chocolate?" Sam's still looking nervous, as he has every right to after all I said about not wanting a party, but he's covering it well. I doubt anyone other than myself or Backup would notice, and she's too busy watching me. I guess my irritation must be showing through to her as badly as Sam's is showing through to me.

Then I'm being mobbed with cards and presents. My cheeks are beginning to ache from forcing a smile at some of them — trust Richards to find a Tigger card from somewhere, and thank you so much for the deodorant. Was that a hint? It's all too familiar, and none of them are the people I really want here. I almost lose it when Backup gives me her card, a small box and a hug. "I know it's not easy this far from home," she says, her soft Canadian accent more pronounced than usual, "but we're here for you." I mumble my thanks in response not trusting myself to say much. Typically, Backup has made exactly the right choice to cheer me up; the card is silly and slightly off-colour, just perfect, and the package turns out to be a copy of Gran Turismo. Suddenly I'm fourteen again and bouncing with excitement. I can't wait to try it out, and it's only when I nearly call Backup "Grandma" that I come down to earth again with a bump. For someone who entered the twentieth century only with the greatest reluctance, Grandma had an unfailing instinct for what excitable little boys really wanted. She'd been too old and too ill to make it to my wedding, but she had a heart-attack and died when they told her the news.

Backup is puzzled by my reaction. She's got that little frown she gets when she's working out just how to interrogate you, so I hastily reassure her that it's a great present, which is easy because it is. She's unconvinced, I can tell that, but she appears to decide that the third degree in front of witnesses would be tactless.

Suddenly I've got Sam in front of me, forcing his offering on me. I raise an eyebrow; my cool and collected partner is almost edgy enough to be noticeable to other people, which is plenty edgy enough to make most people scream and run. Weird. The card is amazingly bland —I've seen Sam pick much more risque ones for other people, and I feel a little let down. The present on the other hand is wrapped with the obsessive neatness I expect from my partner. Just to torment him, since he should have known better than to have had anything to do with this damn party, I make a production out of opening the wrapping. I am so busy taking a slightly twisted enjoyment at how this is winding him up that I have to look twice at the wad of black fabric I uncover. Silk, my fingers report. I shake it out carefully, and stop breathing.

My partner has bought me a black silk shirt for my birthday. The feeling of it in my hands is indescribable, and I just stand there imagining what it will feel like dripping down my body. I swear it's a full minute before I find my voice again. "Sam, you shouldn't have." I croak.

Sam's mask almost cracks. He tries to cover it with indifference. "If you don't like it I can always take—"

"Don't like? Sam, it's beautiful, I wouldn't swap it for anything. But you still shouldn't have. The expense..."

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that," says Backup airily, and Sam's reserve does crack. Into a grin. My anal retentive, obsessively impassively English partner is _smiling_. Someone must have spiked my beer. "Sam got donations the moment he mentioned the idea in the girls' hearing. They know how good you look in black, and silk is soooo sexy."

"The only condition is that you have to wear it to work tomorrow," Sam chips in. "Think of it as an extra inducement not to get blown up." A look passes between him and Backup that goes straight over my head, but they seem to approve so I stop worrying and go back to stroking the shirt. Funny that my emotionally stunted partner could get himself so worked up over whether I liked his present or not. I mean, I got worked up over getting him that watch for his birthday, but that was my God-given right as the over-emotional American joker, and he knew damn well I was just putting on an act. He was for real this time. Well, I live and learn.

In his distinctly finite wisdom, Malone allows us about an hour of partying before calling people back to their stations. By the end of it I'm almost enjoying myself, but it's still at least an hour more than I'd wanted, so my protests are pretty token. The old goat still manages to surprise me, though. "Ah, I haven't given you my present yet, have I Mr Keel? Lacking the encyclopaedic knowledge of your lifestyle that your colleagues have built up, I settled for something more practical. Take the rest of the day off. Report back for duty..." He pauses, looking at me narrowly, and I realise that he knows. His present to me is solitude. "...11am sharp. Mr Curtis can drive you home," he concludes, raising an eyebrow at the collection of beer bottles by my side.

I give him my best grateful grin before realising that he must have known about the scotch too. "Thank you sir. That means a lot to me."

"Well, don't you have a home to go to?" He makes it sound querulous, but I can hear the paternal pride in his words. It does mean a lot to me, and he knows it, and he's letting me take my own self-destructive time with my family anyway. Grinning, I nod to Sam, sweep up my presents and make tracks.

Sam is oddly quiet on the way over to my place. His shields have gone back up, but something's still bothering him. I've grown sensitive to my partner's moods over the last year or so, but I can't get inside this one. To be fair I'm not really trying since I'm mostly alternating between fondling the shirt, remembering birthdays past and realising that those times can never come back again. I'm working myself up for the photo albums, I know, and I can't quite bring myself back to the real world enough to ask Sam what's bugging him. He wouldn't tell me anyway of course, that's the whole point of his "iceman" schtick. He'll tell me when he's good and ready, and not a moment before.

We pull up, and I'm a bit surprised when Sam gets out of the car too. Damn it, I was looking forward to indulging in some serious self-pity, and I'm not about to let all my neuroses hang out in front of my over-starched partner. I open my mouth to tell him to beat it, and the part of my brain in charge of perversity promptly takes over. "Coffee?" I ask, then mentally kick myself. I wanted to be alone, not tending to Sam when he's acting up.

There's not a lot I can say when Sam nods and follows me upstairs. "Just kidding" wouldn't go down well at this point, I suspect. I'm obscurely pleased all the same that he's with me. I guess my hindbrain is still in work mode, glad to have someone I trust implicitly watching my back when I'm about to do something incredibly stupid. Even if he is acting strange and my only intention for the evening is to get completely drunk.

Entering my flat, I shrug off my jacket and let it lie where it falls, dump my presents on the kitchen counter and start prepping the coffee machine. Normality reasserts itself as Sam expresses his disgust with my housekeeping. "God Chris, you're such a slob!" he says, and appears in the kitchen carrying two pizza boxes by the corner as if they were about to bite him.

I forbear to mention that I actually tidied up a bit yesterday, since I knew I'd be making more mess today. Instead I just say "Bin's under the sink," as if that explained everything, and carry on spooning in the coffee grounds.

Sam opens the sink cupboard gingerly, and shuts it again in a hurry. "I _think_ the bin's under there, but its contents are making a bid for freedom. _These_ ," he waves the unexploded pizza boxes at me, "go outside."

As Sam suits actions to words, I try to relax. Whatever was bothering my partner he's either forgotten about it or, more likely, buried it under the friendly bickering that we always indulge in. Oh well, maybe another time. Then my eyes light on the shirt again and I forget all about Sam's moods. There's no way I'm waiting until tomorrow before I try it out. My T-shirt is rapidly introduced to the floor and I pull on the silk.

God, it feels good. It's delightfully cool, and so light that it just brushes over my body like liquid. I can't help it, I wriggle my shoulders just to feel it slipping and sliding over me, and gently stroke my right hand down my left arm. Never mind what Backup said about looking sexy, it _feels_ sexy. If I'm not careful I'll give myself a hard-on, which would be kind of embarrassing with Sam still here.

It's at about this point that I notice Sam staring at me with such a peculiar expression that I automatically check over my shoulder for the threat. There isn't one, of course, and it dawns on me that he's never seen me do something so unashamedly sensual before. I've probably shocked him to his repressed British core. Not wanting to strain our partnership too far, I offer him a small smile and an apology. "Sorry, I couldn't help myself. It just feels so good!" I notice that I'm still gently stroking my arm, the perverse part of my brain takes over again. "Here, you feel it."

Sam's reaction is fascinating. He raises both hands and takes a half step back, mouthing some formula or other to keep his distance, but the rest of his body language is saying something quite different. And he can't take his eyes off the shirt. I decide I've had quite enough of British reserve, grab his hand and run it slowly down my chest. Sam's sentence breaks off in a muffled squawk, and sheer deviltry makes me say, "See, it's so smoooooth..." The word almost becomes a moan as Sam's other hand joins in, rubbing the silk in gentle circles up and down my arms and body. In other circumstances this would be erotic. Strike that thought, this _is_ erotic. I find myself stretching into Sam's safe, gentle hands and almost purring at the sensation of silk on skin. What remains of my rational faculties point out that (a) I'm not gay, (b) he's my partner damn it, and (c) under no circumstances do I want to risk my friendship with him. It's hard enough on him already, from the way his hands are shaking. The rest of me is in no mood for rationality, though. It's my birthday, I think, as I lean up towards his mouth....

The coffee machine saves me from making a complete fool of myself, gurgling like a dying elephant as the last of the water goes through. I pull back from Sam a bit too quickly, reluctant though I am to break his touch. I turn away and busy myself with the mugs so that I can't see his shields go back up, and he can't see the embarrassment flame across my face. What the hell did I think I was doing, coming on to him like that. It's not as if I want him in bed, I think to myself, trying for an image that will gross me out enough to calm down. It doesn't work, which really worries me. I must be far more drunk than I thought.

"Sorry about that," I say, and cough to try and dislodge the cat that's after my tongue. "I really ought to descale it."

"Mmm." Sam seems to be having as much trouble as me talking. No surprise there. The wonder is that he's still talking to me at all. "You'll get your coffee faster too," he points out, ever practical.

I take one last deep breath and school my face before turning round with the coffee. Sam has retreated to the doorway, a nice safe distance from me. Good. He also has a pleasant nothing's-going-on smile pasted on his face that doesn't fool me for an instant. Just as my smile probably isn't fooling him. Less good. Still, he hasn't fled, which means I'll get to apologise later. When I work out what the hell I was up to. I wave a coffee mug in his general direction. "I don't know about you, but I could do with sitting down."

Sam takes the hint, and the coffee, and we go through to the lounge. I drop gracelessly onto the couch, while Sam expels some socks to sit gingerly on the chair. Safely out of harm's way. Oh God, how am I going to explain my way out of this one? I look down at the coffee table to avoid looking him in the eye, because I don't think I can cope with that just now. This turns out to be another mistake. I see the photo album I left out this morning and I open it on autopilot. Shit! Sam can't help noticing that, and he's bound to ask.

True to form, I hear Sam shifting to get a better look. "Your wedding, I take it?" I can hear the curiosity in his voice, strained through something that must be caution. I've tried to keep him away from these dark moments of my past. It's painful to think about them, and I don't want to inflict that pain on him. Not on Sam, he doesn't deserve that. Still, I was going to go through the pain anyway tonight, and I figure I owe him. Now all I have to figure out is how to tell him and keep something like my dignity intact.

"Yeah," I say, though it comes out somewhere between a growl and a sigh, and I can hear Sam flinch. The thought of having hurt him again is just too much, so I make myself twist the album to give him a better view and point out a smooth-looking teenager. "Cousin Bernie," I say. "God, what a dork he could be. Everyone agreed that he could have any girl he wanted, but he still hadn't got up the courage to ask one out to the senior prom."

"So that's where you get it from," Sam chuckles.

"Just because I'm getting more selective in my old age..."

"Far be it from me to comment on your advancing decrepitude..."

I look up at his slightly forced grin and do the only thing that could be reasonably expected from a highly trained ex-Navy SEAL. I stick my tongue out at him. It's like the last five minutes never happened. We're back to our usual banter, even if it's not quite as easy as usual. It looks like Sam has forgiven me, which gives me an unexpectedly warm feeling. I guess I really was afraid that I'd blown our partnership. Our friendship. It also makes it easier to carry on through the album, introducing my partner to my family. I hope they approve of him.

Unfortunately when I get to my Dad my hard-won calm deserts me. "Dad... you know, I think he only missed one of my birthdays ever." I blink away a treacherous tear, not wanting Sam to see my distress. "We always did better getting the family together for my birthdays than any other time."

"You had a good turnout for the wedding."

"Yeah," I whisper, trying to swallow down the lump in my throat. "They came to my wedding."

Sam looks like he's struggling with something, and I swear there's fear in his eyes. "And now they're gone," he says with quiet finality. Clever Sam, he must have noticed how I never referred to any of them in the present tense. I can't leave him like this, I owe him the rest. And if he never wants to work with such an emotional basket-case again... I'll live. Probably.

I can't keep the tears back any longer, but my self-control is still good for my voice. "Dead, Sam. Less than an hour after the photos were taken, two men armed with semi-automatics burst in and killed them. All of them. Theresa, my wife, she died in my arms. And I walked away without a scratch." My voice is dull with grief as I finish, and the tears are flowing freely. There is a quiet oath from Sam and suddenly he is beside me, strong arms hugging me to him, keeping the world I can no longer cope with at bay. I let go completely and just cry and cry as he holds me and whispers that he's so sorry, that he shouldn't have pushed, that I mustn't blame myself, that it wasn't my fault.

It was my fault, though. They came for me, because the wedding was on my birthday. And I set the date so that they'd all come. I killed them, just as surely as if I'd pulled the trigger.

Eventually I regain some measure of self-control, and relax my grip on the man who has become my emotional anchor. I knew I relied on him at work to stop me doing anything too crazy, to rein me back with a plan. It's good to know I can rely on him out of the field too. At least if my display hasn't disgusted his repressed British nature beyond all repair. I hardly kept a stiff upper lip there.

The hands on my shoulders as I pull away are reassuring, rubbing gently as if the silk can wipe away the guilt and pain. It helps. "Sorry," I say in a still rather broken voice, "that can't have been pretty."

"You needed it," Sam says softly. I nod. I did need it, I just wasn't sure he'd understand. Looks like I've been lucky. "You OK now?"

"Yeah. Some. You know, you Brits are better at this touchy-feely thing than you let on." It's a weak joke and I know it, and the moment it's out of my mouth I'm afraid that Sam will pull away. I need his touch still, because I can't trust myself not to break down again.

I'm luckier than I deserve. Sam just smiles back and keeps those wonderful hands in contact with me. "If you ever tell anyone else in the office though, I'll have to shoot you." That's more like the Sam I know, ready with a put-down for stupid Americans. I can see the pain in his eyes, though, and it hurts me all over again because it's my pain that he's trying to take away.

What he says next surprises the hell out of me. "Would you remember them for me?" I remember them all the time, and it hurts like hell thank you very much. If anyone other than Sam had suggested that, I'd have decked them. My partner has something on his mind, though. "Describe them to me, I mean, tell me something about each of them." Let the pain out some more, I translate, and I balk at inflicting more of my pain on Sam. But there's something in his eyes, pleading with me to go along with him, so I shrug and we settle back on the couch. Sam's left arm stays draped round my shoulders as I pick up the album and talk. It's stupid I know, but I do feel safer with it there, with him there, and I have to resist the urge to snuggle closer.

It's hard at first, trying to bring my family back to life for my friend. I tell him haltingly about Aunty Irene and the incredible mess she kept up in her attic, even though we all thought it was just a breeding ground for the spiders she so loathed. To my surprise, Sam doesn't take the opportunity to tease me about my housekeeping, but instead reminisces about Shelly Masters' infamous admission of arachnophobia, and how unimpressed she was about a certain unnamed ex-Navy SEAL secreting rubber spiders around her desk for the next week. Initially I think he's just trying to relax me, which the anecdotes do so I can hardly complain, but it eventually it dawns on me that he has an ulterior motive in matching me story for story.

The clincher is when I tell him about Dad, the Admiral. "Malone knew Admiral Keel, did you know that?" Sam mentions almost idly. I demur; Dad never talked about work at home, except to encourage me to fly. "Apparently they crossed paths several times, and there was this one occasion in Lisbon." He then proceeds to outline a truly outrageous tale of mischief and mayhem that sounds just like my father and utterly implausible for our stuffy boss. By the end I'm grinning and shaking my head. Sam pretends to be hurt at my disbelief. "It's all true, scout's honour."

"You were never a boy scout, or at least not one to be trusted," I laugh. "Besides I've rumbled your game, Curtis. No matter how much I may love being in CI5, it's not my family."

Sam feigns innocence, eyes dancing. "The thought had never occurred to me," he lies smoothly, "but now you come to mention it there are a few similarities. Apart from being generally mad, we do grudgingly rally round when we're needed, and we did all turn up today. Well, almost all."

They did, and that stops my protest dead. Oh, Michaels and Kochinski were off in Louisiana, a blessing given how well we don't get on, but everyone else based in London was there. I thought the office was a little crowded. Suddenly I feel cold. They were all there because of me. If someone had tried bombing us today...

Sam breaks into my introspection before I can work myself up to another crying fit. "So who's that," he asks, pointing to a photo of me and a man trying his best to look aristocratic in a morning suit.

"Martin Bernstein, my best man. Marty was,... God, Marty must have hauled my ass out of more scrapes than I've had hot dinners. He was always there when I needed a hand. He was the one who hand-delivered my application to the Naval Academy when I went down with flu and forgot it. He was the one who distracted the hot dog vendor long enough for me and Matt to get away. Heck, he was the one who persuaded me to ask Theresa out. Well, maybe 'persuade' is the wrong word. He actually said that he'd rip my arm off and club me to death with the stump if I didn't ask her to marry me. He was one of the best."

Sam looks unbelievably pleased with himself, so I give him a friendly glare. At least, I reckon, I'm going to get a Curtis anecdote out of this, and stories of Sam's past are about as rare as, well, stories of my past. I'm looking forward to finding out a bit more about my secretive partner, so he catches me a bit flat-footed when all he says is "Sounds just like Backup." Which is true, actually. Marty, like Backup, pulled my fat out of the fire. Sam does his best to stop me getting into the fire in the first place. Just like the only person I haven't told him about yet. Just like Theresa.

Suddenly, it all falls into place. I may be an over-emotional, stupid American, but that doesn't mean that I'm stupid. Oh wait, yes it does. But even stupid Americans can sometimes put two and two together. Like how Sam's been treading on eggshells around me this last day, and got himself wound up about getting me a present that he obviously liked seeing me in. Like the look that he and Backup exchanged in the office, the same one that Marty and I exchanged before I proposed. Like how I finally recognise the look in his eyes, mixed in with the fear and concern, and how I last saw it dying in my arms three years ago.

To think I was worried about hitting on him, the rational part of me chuckles as the rest of me rockets out of the couch, out of the circle of his arms. "No!" I yell, and now Sam looks really worried. The shields are completely down, and he's making no attempt to hide his fear. The stupid bloody idiot, doesn't he know I'm only going to hurt him? "This is insane! I can't... I'm not... I won't risk you like this."

"Chris, I..." his eyes are pleading, but I rampage on, fuelled by fear.

"Don't you get it yet, Sam? _Everyone I love dies!_ I don't dare let anyone close!"

I see Sam flinch, see him take on board that I'm never going to love him, see that light in his eyes die out. I expect him to crawl back into his shell, put on the mask of the cool, reserved Englishman again, but he doesn't. "I'm sorry," he says in a very small voice, and his pain is naked to me, "I've obviously said something to upset you." He is going to carry on, try to take the blame onto himself and try to spare me the hurt but my treacherous legs give way and I collapse back onto the couch. Sam whips his arm away as if stung, and I hurt, I can't help myself. His pain is too much for me. The tears are back again, and I know I am defeated.

"No," I say, equally quietly, "I'm sorry. It's my fault." Then coherence deserts me and just bury my head in his chest again and sob. Sam doesn't know what to do with me, so I try to explain, squeezing the words out between tears. "I'm so sorry. I thought that if I kept on playing the joker, letting everything slide off, I could keep everyone out. Never have to watch them die. But you... I tried to keep you out and it's broken my heart. Somehow you've snuck up on me, and it's too late to push you away. I'm so sorry, Sam, I never meant for this to happen. I never meant to hurt you."

Sam cradles me gently, shushing me as the sobs break out again. "But..." He pauses, still hesitant, probably confused as hell at my incoherent babbling. God, please don't let me have hurt him so badly he can't talk to me. "You said... you aren't...?"

"I wasn't gay this morning. Now...." I lift my tear-stained face out of his shirt. I must look a right mess, but I need him to see me, to see I'm telling him the truth. From the heart. "Now all I know is that I love you."

The way his face slowly lights up at my words is all the reward I could ever have dreamed of. I've never really thought of my partner physically before — sexually, I guess I mean — but just now I can't think of him as anything but beautiful. God alone knows what he sees in me to stick it out this long. There is caution still in his eyes, and I can't blame him. I just hurt him, hurt him badly in my futile attempt not to love him, and he's not someone who gives his trust easily. I only hope I can earn it again.

Sam slowly starts stroking my back with one hand while the other gently wipes away my tears. "God, Chris, I... you have no idea how long I've waited to hear that. I thought there was no chance that you'd return my feelings, not the way that you were going through the typing pool."

"With some help, I might point out." My snappy repartee clearly doesn't need the intervention of my brain any more, since all I can think about is those clouded silver-grey eyes staring down at me. "How was I supposed to know?"

Sam shrugs, equally unable to look away from me. "You weren't, I guess. By the time I figured out that I'd fallen for you, I didn't dare tell you, in case..." In case I rejected you, I think. Like I just did. Oh Sam! "If I left things alone, at least I could be with you. If I tried anything, you could storm off and get reassigned, or quit, or... Whatever happened, I couldn't face losing you."

I nod. I've had five minutes of that feeling. I can't imagine how my impassive partner has managed to stay sane for, what, weeks of it? Months? "So what changed?" I ask, and another piece of the puzzle slots into place. I smile; "Backup threatened to rip off your arm and club you to death with the stump if you didn't get on with it." It's not a question and Sam's brief quirk of a smile is all the answer I need. "That woman knows us far too well. Remind me to thank her later." Sam looks like there's more he wants to say, but I've had enough of talking. I take the only way of shutting him up that I can think of.

He tastes wonderful. There's the bitterness of coffee, a hint of icing, but mostly he just tastes of Sam and I can't get enough of him. He leans in to deepen the kiss, and our tongues start duelling across our lips as we taste each other to the full. I moan as his hands start dancing across my body, stirring silk against skin. It was erotic before, but the feeling is ten times more intense now that I know this incredible man wants me. My own hands run up and down Sam's white cotton shirt, still damp from my tears, but it's not enough. I want to feel Sam under my hands, the fabric has got to go.

My impatience makes me clumsy as I fumble with the buttons, but not so insensitive that I miss the hesitation in Sam's fingers. One final question pops into my head, and I have to ask it so I gently pull back from our kiss. We're both breathing hard, and I'm almost lost again gazing at those lips reddened from our prolonged contact, those ever-changing eyes. The hint of fear in amongst the grey-green is what finally prompts me to ask, "Have you done this before? With a man I mean?"

Well, I'm hardly in a condition to think never mind go for public speaking prizes, but Sam seems to understand. "No. Never." Typical. I have to fall for the most English of Englishmen, and neither of us has a clue what we're doing. "We'll just have to improvise." Hold that thought.

We kiss again, and holding any thought becomes more of a challenge than I'm up to as I scrabble at Sam's remaining shirt buttons. He only briefly pauses in his own efforts as I push the shirt down his arms, freeing his magnificent torso, and then both shirts go flying as we embrace skin to skin. God, if I thought the silk felt good, I reckoned without Sam's hands. He brushes lightly over my body, and tears another moan from me. I'm hard already, to the point where my jeans are becoming uncomfortable, but I want to put Sam first. He's waited so long for me.

My lips leave his, and trace a line of gentle kisses down his neck. I drink in the scent of him, a strong, clean scent just right for my anchor, my strong tower against the world. I plant a big kiss at the base of his throat, letting my tongue feel his pulse, then I move down to lick his right nipple. His sigh of pleasure turns into a sharp gasp as I nip him lightly, twisting my head slightly to grin up at him. He's beyond grins now, no room for anything on his face but pure passion. I alternate between his nipples, now kissing, now nipping, now laving them until they are hard points. My hands constantly run up and down my lover's sides, as his run through my hair and over my shoulders.

Satisfied, I slide down and lick a path clean from navel to clavicle. The salty taste of him is another wonder to add to the catalogue of delights I am finding in my lover's body. As my hands gently open his slacks and ease his boxers past his erection, Sam abandons his silence to whisper a soft litany of love. "Oh, Chris, oh God, yes, Chrisssssss...." Gently I slip his shoes off, pull his clothes away and lean back to contemplate the perfection in front of me.

He is beautiful. Sprawled there naked on the couch before me, his lean, hard body lightly coated with sweat, he almost glows in the afternoon light. There's not an ounce of fat on him, and even now the way he holds himself makes me think of a tiger, dangerous and predatory, ready to lash out at a moment's notice. Except that this tiger's posture is fairly screaming submission and need, and I can do nothing but fulfil him.

I lower my head again, and dip my tongue into the tip of his weeping cock. Sam bucks wildly, but my hands on his hips keep him from plunging into my mouth. I pause to savour another new taste, to file away another new memory of Sam, then I bring to bear every trick that's ever been used on me. This is our first time, and I want it to be special. He deserves the best, but he's stuck with me and I do what I can. It seems to be enough; his words get louder as I caress his inner thighs. I cup his balls, gently massaging them, then run my tongue up the length of his cock before slowly taking him into my mouth, inch by magnificent inch.

It's not quite what I expected, though God knows I'd never thought about what it would be like. I find my throat muscles doing funny things trying to swallow him as he slides in and out, setting a slow rhythm in stark contrast to his increasingly urgent cries. My hands caress him constantly, running from flanks to buttocks to thighs, playing with the light dusting of hair on his taut abdomen. Finally I can hold him no longer, and he comes with a hoarse scream. Gently, I lick him clean, then slide back up him body to kiss him full on the lips again. I want to share his taste with him, because it's a taste of heaven.

Sam looks exhausted, but he returns my kiss with passion. I don't want to push too far, so I pull back, resting a hand lightly on his shoulder to keep him from following. "You don't have to, you know," I tell him, offering him the chance to rest. "I'm OK." That's a blatant lie, and we both know it. I'm so aroused by him that it's painful. Really, physically painful, damn these jeans!

Sam smiles up at me, a shy smile that lights his eyes, so different from the false grin he plasters on for anybody else. "Christopher Keel, if you think I'm letting you get away from here unmolested you've got another thing coming." Suddenly I'm lying on my back on the floor. The tiger has turned, and however tired he is there's nothing but hunger in that gaze. It's hunger for me, and it makes me shiver in anticipation.

It's all I can do to concentrate on unbuckling my belt as his hands rove over me, delicate touches setting my pulse racing and reducing me to incoherence in a matter of seconds. His lips trail fire across my belly, and I writhe as I desperately try to get rid of this last barrier between us. Finally Sam takes pity on me, roughly pulling off trainers, socks and clothing. It's a blessed relief to free my hardened cock, to feel the cool air on my skin, and then Sam is on me again, devouring me.

He explores my body with a thoroughness I barely have the attention to appreciate, finding and exciting erogenous zones I didn't know I had. There's nothing gentle in this animal that was my partner, but I don't want gentle, I want him and I've got him. He holds me with rough strength, bringing me right to the edge and holding me there with tricks I never even imagined. I try to beg him to release me, but my mouth can only make random whimpering noises until he brings me to climax, his name screaming from my lips. As he laps at my shrinking erection my scattered thoughts slowly return to me. God, now I know why the British are so reserved all the time. If they let themselves go like Sam just did they'd wear the rest of us out in nothing flat.

Sam crawls back up my body, and we share little kisses and stroke each other for a while. I can taste myself on him; it's a good taste, but not as good as Sam. I want more of him, much more, but I can wait. I sure as hell couldn't do anything about it now, I'm shattered and he doesn't look much better. Eventually I come to a decision. "Bed," I say, as firmly as I can manage.

Sam rolls his eyes. "I think you might kill me if we start again now. I'm not even sure I can stand."

"Exactly." I can't help it, I'm grinning back at him like a loon. "We need rest, and my bed is a hell of a lot more comfortable than this floor." Sam has to admit I have a point, and we slowly help each other up and stagger towards the bedroom. It takes a while, mostly because we keep stopping to embrace and kiss. I literally can't get enough of the taste of him, of the feeling of his skin on mine. As we reach the door, I catch one last glimpse of the photo album discarded on the coffee table, and I realise that Sam was right. I have a new life, a new family and a new love, and I know that my old family would approve. They can live in me now, rather than dying a bit more every year.

We slip into bed together, Sam spooning round me in a gesture that is at once possessive and protective. I don't mind. I'm his, body and soul, and there is no one better to watch my back. We keep touching each other in small, meaningless gestures, still amazed that we're here, reassuring ourselves that we aren't going to wake up from this particular dream. As sleep draws near, the final piece of the puzzle drops into place, and I snicker. "I'm gonna have to think of some way to thank Malone for his present," I say sleepily. Sam snorts into my shoulder, unimpressed. "Oh, the shirt was utterly wonderful," I murmur, squeezing his hand in reassurance, "but Malone has you beat hollow.

"He gave me you."


End file.
